The Meaning Of
by omens
Summary: “Reinvention. It’s a powerful thing.” Slight AU future-fic. Troy/Sharpay
1. Chapter 1

**Name:** Chris

**Title:** The meaning of…

**Fandom:** High School Musical

**Genre:** General

**Rating:** T-ish.

**Summary:** "Reinvention. It's a powerful thing." Slight AU future-fic. [Troy/Sharpay] For Meagan.

_**A/N: Keep in mind that I still have yet to watch Senior Year, thus its 'slight AU.'**_

…0…

Ennui: (noun) boredom from lack of interest, weariness and dissatisfaction with life that results from a loss of interest or sense of excitement.

…0…

"…_and there's Troy Bolton, newly appointed team captain and leading scorer, with the ball. Bolton seems to be having the game of his life tonight with forty-seven points and seventeen assists. There's no stopping him ladies and gentlemen, Bolton is on fire."_

…0…

Sports movies, despite popular opinion, were never something that Troy Bolton liked. They were too forced, too fake. No real athlete was ever going to admit their fears to some random in love with him chick on a set of bleachers or own up to playing because "it's the only thing I've ever been good at."

The game, whatever it may be, meant way too much to any serious athlete. And it had taken him a long time to realize that.

Another thing Troy has never cared for; hospitals.

So now here he sits, backless gown and all, watching as his life's work swirls down the proverbial drain like some Hollywood cliché come to life.

His foot twitches, rubbing against the scratchy plaster of his cast. Just one more reminder of what's happening to him. As if he needs it when he's still sitting on thin polyester sheets looking at the blank institutional walls of San Antonio Memorial Hospital.

"It's not really as bad as it seems right now."

Troy's eyes flicker from the window to the face of his assistant Shelly. Her big brown eyes sparkle with sympathy behind her small wire framed glasses. A chuckle forms in his throat. One of the reasons he'd hired her was because of her upbeat attitude and never ending optimism. Now, well frankly, it's beginning to get on his nerves.

"Really?" he asks sarcastically. "What part of having my life ripped away from me isn't really as bad as it seems?"

A small faction of shame rises up in his gut when he sees her take a step back, away from him, and her eyes fall to the floor. Shame, yes. Remorse…not so much.

"Oh, stop your whining Pretty Boy."

At once it seems his entire room is invaded by a blur of pink and blonde, the clacking of heels and heady aroma of thick perfume swirling in a meticulous madness. Ironic that a woman as tiny as his publicist could take up so much space just by standing there.

"You haven't had your life ripped away," she states and throws open the standard issue Mojave print curtains. "It's just a little setback."

Troy snorts. Somewhere in the back of his mind he can hear his mother scolding him for the rude gesture. The statement is just trying a little too hard for his taste to even care though. "Setback? Come on, Joyce," he implores, "my basketball career is over." Hands wave toward the cast so new it still smells like plaster covering his left leg toes to thigh.

"Small potatoes, Darling." Joyce's southern accent is thick; coloring her words in such a way that Troy has long gotten used to tuning out anything and everything else in the room that could distract him in order to know just what the hell she was talking about. He wondered, as he often did, if it were deliberate. "You, Try Bolton," her hands land on the foot of his bed as she leans toward him dramatically (all for effect), "are meant for much bigger and better things than drooling a ball down a court for the next twenty years."

"Dribbling," he corrects.

She waves her hand dismissively. "Whatever. What if I told you that I had plans for you?"

"I would say that I need more morphine."

…0…

"Dude-you're just like Rick Fox!"

Not an analogy Troy would ever apply to himself, but he'd long since given up on the idea of his friends ever making sense.

"This is a pretty sweet setup," Chad declares, replacing the ten pound weight in his hand for a fifteen pound, surveying the array of machines and equipment littered about. "For a hospital. And Rick Fox retired, he wasn't injured."

"Still," Zeke insists, "acting. That's so cool man. Think you'll get to work with Jessica Simpson?"

Sighing, Troy lifts his leg higher, willing the ton of rubber and steel he was sitting on to work its magic and restore him back to playing form and tuned out the bickering of his friends. He appreciates them coming all the way to Texas, truly he does, but his recovery is slow-slower than he'd anticipated and his mood has steadily gone downhill from sour to all out bitter. He doesn't even need to turn around to know that the muffled 'thwack' sound is Chad's hand landing on the back of Zeke's head.

"Guys," he pleads and hears the weariness in his own voice. "I'm trying to concentrate here. Comebacks don't just happen on their own."

He'd have had to be blind or completely oblivious to miss the look that passes between Chad and Zeke, a look that plainly says 'Troy has flipped his lid.'

Zeke steps closer to the weight machine Troy's sitting on. "Um, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you tear your Achilles tendon and about half the cartilage in your knee."

"And fracture your femur," Chad supplies.

Zeke glances at him. "Thanks man."

"No problem."

With a grunt, Troy lets the weight fall to the floor and takes hold of the crutches propped against the side to stand shakily." I'm gonna get there. Its just going to take a little time."

"That's the spirit!"

All three men turn their eyes toward the rehab room door and see Joyce striding through, silk scarf billowing out behind her. She comes to a stop between his friends and looks them up and down in a quick appraisal, sniffing slightly when her eyes light on Chad's hair. He pats it in self-consciousness, a pout forming on his face.

"So," she says brightly, "I have been on the phone to LA all morning trying to find you the perfect project for your debut film and…" A script appears from inside her bag and she waves it in his face like some sort of half crazed challenge. "Voila!"

"That's…uh, that's something." Troy wipes at the sweat on his forehead with a towel, hoping it will distract her from the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. "But I told you that I'm not entirely on board with this whole idea yet."

When she waves her arm around, the stack of bangle bracelets around her wrist jangle and clink together, pulling his focus momentarily from what she's saying. "That was before I knew you were a born thespian."

"Did she just call him a-" Zeke starts to whisper (a little too loudly) before Chad clapped a hand on his mouth, looking at the other two sheepishly.

Without sparing a glance in Zeke's direction, Joyce hands the script off on Troy, forcing him to grapple with it and his crutches, and extracts a photo from her bag and holds it proudly like the grand prize in a scavenger hunt. "You never told me about this…Arnold."

It feels like someone has just punched Troy in the gut. He stands, too stunned to speak, staring at a ten year old photo of himself dancing around the East High auditorium-in full costume-with Gabriella in the winter musical.

Zeke's free from Chad's grasp now and eyeing the photo over Troy's shoulder. "Where did you get that?"

"The internet is a wonderful tool." Her smile reminds Troy of the Cheshire Cat and a chill runs down his spine. "And every school loves to boast about their star alumni."

"Not to interrupt," Zeke's head pops back up over Troy's shoulder and leans closer toward Joyce. "Is there any chance you're single?"

"Dude," Troy complains with a shake of his shoulder just as Chad jerks him backwards.

Joyce sniffs, rolls her eyes as if this is a common occurrence, and adjusts the shirt that's now bunched around Troy in sweaty clumps around his crutches. "Read it. You'll love it. Trust me sweetie."

And she's gone, leaving a cloud of perfume and the sound of stilettos in her wake.

Chad props an elbow on Troy's shoulder, taking the script away from him. "That woman," he states, "is scary."

"Think she'd go out with me?" Zeke wondered aloud.

As he made his way back to his hospital room, Troy heard the thud of Zeke hitting the floor, and Chad's laughter behind him.

…0…

"All we're doing is talking," Joyce reminded him, smoothing down the back of his jacket. "Nothing's been decided yet." She turned her head, snapping her fingers a Shelly. "You have the script changes I asked for?"

"Right here." And like that, they were in her hand.

"Good, good. Wait-where's the billing clause?" She stops, whirling around, fingers outstretched. A pen is in her grasp in two seconds. "There." Squaring her shoulders and smiling brightly, she pats down Troy's hair. "Let's go, shall we?"

Sometimes, Troy forgets that there was ever a life before pro ball. He certainly never imagined one after it, that's for sure. And then there are times-like when Joyce waves a decade old picture of him and his high school girlfriend in his face-that the past jumps out and takes him by surprise. Not even Chad and Zeke are enough to water down the shock when he remembers the boy he was when he thought there were other things out there more important than the life he wants.

Times like this, when he hears a voice he hasn't heard since he was eighteen says in heated indignation, "Troy Bolton is not in my movie."

Brown eyes, glittering in anger, meet his and he's hit at once with the memory of golf clubs and tanning lotion, sequins and sheet music.

Sharpay Evans. Of course.

…0…


	2. Chapter 2

…0…

Resistance: (noun) refusal to accept or comply with something.

…0…

Whenever Troy thinks back on what he remembers of the Sharpay Evans who danced around him on a stage with a gauzy pink train, his mind conjures up an image that would seem more like a caricature if he didn't know for a fact that it had all actually happened; a seventeen year old prima donna, all shiny and sparkly, fixing that smile and those eyes on him, unknown agendas dancing through her head. A perfectly pretty, perfectly villianesque movie-like character.

This woman before him, the Sharpay she's become, isn't that little girl anymore. Gone are the sequins and shimmery shoes she wore as a kid, the big mane of blonde curls nowhere to be seen. Her face, always beautiful, had lost the roundness of youth, sharpened to a beauty undeniable. Sharpay Evans is all grown up, and the realization shocks him more than he could ever have anticipated, stuns him into silence. She's a woman grown, and grown well as anyone on the planet could attest.

And the only difference between that s girl and this woman was that he was even more at a loss of what to expect from her than ever before. The full blown tantrum she's in seems to be proof of that. Who knows how many of those he's seen over the years. This one seems different though.

"I see we've been expected," Joyce quips sarcastically, not even waiting for the tension to be efficiently dealt with before settling in at the conference table, notes in hand. Pointed glances at both Troy and Shelly have them scrambling for seats on either side of her. Eyes focused on the table in front of him doesn't so much to keep Troy from feeling those brown eyes trained on him, but he does it anyway.

"Joyce," the balding man in the room when they arrived greets her, sits on the other side of the table, shuffles the papers in his files methodically. "I think that today might not be the best time for this." Though he can't see for sure, Troy would venture a guess that the man is casting furtive glances in Sharpay's direction. It was a common enough practice at East High and it doesn't really seem like all that much has changed.

"Nonsense," she waves him off, pulling out her various lists and papers. "We're sorting through several options and this is the only chance we're going to have to…" When he risks a peek at her from the corner of his eye, he sees her smirking at Sharpay, all smugness and falsity. It's like two caged tigers circling one another he thinks. "Discuss things."

The man fidgets more, appearing like he's trying to shrink inside of himself.

It's astounding really, the effect Sharpay Evans still has on people.

"Now, basically," Joyce begins, "we have an incredible opportunity here. America's favorite athlete, bouncing back from a career-ending injury to a new profession matched with the biggest box office draw in Hollywood today. Coupled with the history…well, you can't write that kind of publicity."

"History?" Searching through the stack of papers he produced from his own mammoth sized briefcase, Troy watched the man's brows scrunch together in irritation. "What history?" His eyes shoot to Sharpay, who glares and squirms before she finally looks at Troy.

"High school," she says slowly, deliberately. "We went to high school together."

High school. Grade school. Pre school even, but Troy doesn't say that. He can't say much of anything really.

Joyce though, Joyce can't stop talking. "So you see, that's one reason why this project is out first choice. There's already a full proof marketing strategy."

And it's done. Sign on the dotted line and he's committed to a lead role in a major motion picture. For the entire summer. With Sharpay Evans.

How did this become his life?

…0…

"Bolton."

Every nerve ending in Troy's body stands up when he hears Sharpay's voice, hears her heels clacking behind him. He sees a vision of pink and sparkles before he turns around.

"Sharpay."

Her arms go across her chest, and her chin tilts down, looking at him from under her lashes. Troy knows that look. "I just thought you deserved fair warning."

"About what?"

"I'm not happy about this," she says in a slow even tone. "And I don't expect that to change."

A ball of unease begins to unravel in Troy's stomach. He'd be lying if he said that Sharpay is easy to contend with. He'd be a fool to deny that she makes him nervous. At times, she's even scared him a little.

It'd be laughable if it were anyone other than him; Troy Bolton, who has stood toe to toe with professional athletes twice his size, afraid of someone as tiny as Sharpay Evans.

Not that he would ever call her tiny to her face. He has more common sense than that.

"And that means…" He's getting nervous now. His stomach is trying to escape via his throat kind of nervous. "What?"

And then his personal space is all but gone and he finds himself eye to eye with her. She has to be able to hear him gulp. Even he hears it. It isn't fair really, that she can still do this too him after all this time. He's an adult now.

But all it takes to make Troy feel like a kid is Sharpay Evans and that glare of hers.

"It means that I'm a professional, and it seems there's nothing I can do about this." There is though. She could drop out and they both know it, like they both know she's choosing not to. "But it also means that I'm not going to go out of my way here. Whether you flop or not, it doesn't matter to me." Her hair swings when she turns, a few errant locks brushing against his arm.

"Sharpay…" What's he going to ask her? For help? For some reason behind all the hostility she's flinging at him? He doesn't know. But he has to try something.

"What?" she demands. "I've said all I wanted to say."

This is wrong. He can feel it, in every fiber of his being. Troy's brow knits together as he looks at this woman before him; the little girl who used to sing Disney songs during recess from the top of the slide. Acting, singing, that's pretty much been her entire life for as long as he's known her. Which incidentally, happens to be his entire life? It always matters to Sharpay."

"You can't not care."

There's almost a pleading in his voice-he can hear it. Why? That's what he doesn't understand more than any of it. More than why doesn't Sharpay care-why does he?

Her eyes go hard. "I'm not Daddy's little girl anymore, Bolton. There's not gonna be anyone there to make it all better if I mess up."

Until today, Troy hasn't laid eyes on Sharpay outside of a tabloid magazine cover in over ten years. The headlines always read somewhere along the lines of a new romance or a hot new role, accompanied by the same big smile he'd seen nearly every day of his childhood.

On the outside it looked like Sharpay had gotten everything she'd ever wanted.

So why was she being so…ruthless. Why was she so bitter?

"It's nothing personal," she says, (It just feels like it is, what wit the daggers she kept shooting him during the meeting.) "It's business. My business, Troy. And I don't play well with others."

Oh, that much he remembers. There's still some little something niggling at him though. Something that doesn't add up.

"What is, it Sharpay?" He invades her personal space, the way she used to do in high school, until there's absolutely nothing in his field of vision but the coldness of her big brown eyes. "What did I do to you that you'd let me crash and burn and ruin your movie?"

"Troy."

Joyce sounds impatient. No doubt she's been watching them from the end of the hallway ever since Sharpay stalked up to him and made her intentions clear.

Guess he'll have to wait until their on location before he gets the story behind the venom in Sharpay's expression when he looks away from his agent and back at her. "You're still a kid, Troy," she says accusingly. "That same boy at East High, walking around with his hair in his eyes and his head in the clouds. It's not always about you, okay? Grow up."

And with that, she's gone.

…0…


	3. Chapter 3

…0…

Displace: to disrupt, upset, or disturb the order of something by removal from

it's usual or correct place.

…0…

Of all the places Troy has been in his life, a movie set in London is by far the most jarring.

He's been on the stage before. Stages, to be accurate. But the here and now is so far and away from the Berkley Theater Department it may as well have been Jupiter.

A cold chill races up Troy's spine at the same time the whispers reach his ears. Not that its something he hasn't been subject to before. He's Troy Bolton. The gossip mongers have been on his tail for as long as he can remember.

That doesn't make it any easier though.

The impulse to run, as far and fast as his legs can carry him, hits so he turns. He's prepared to leave without a backwards glance. But he stops short when he catches a glimpse of blonde hair and huge sunglasses walking in the stage door. Sharpay would never let him live down walking out of this movie. He knows that as well as he knows his own name.

"There you are." Joyce. Of course. "Its about time you got here. The read through is just about to start. Hope you came prepared to work."

If work constitutes doing the best he can all the while staying out of Sharpay's way…then yes. Otherwise he's not so sure.

"You bet." He says instead. He's not stupid enough to tell his publicist the truth.

His reward is a big, bright smile and a tight hand on his wrist. "Good boy."

…0…

Three hours later, Joyce and Sharpay have gotten into exactly eleven arguments-three of which had to be broken up by crew members out of fear that physical violence would break out. And they haven't even made it to the actual filming yet.

"Something tells me this is going to be a long summer," Shelly whispers when she hands him the aspirin he has a feeling is going to be a necessity to get through the next three months.

Rex, the guy playing Sharpay's dad in the movie sits to Troy's right. He's worked with her before and takes in the scene around him with the bemused smile of someone well accustomed to diva moments. "Is she always like this?" Troy asks.

Rex's hand clamps down on his shoulder, a fatherly gesture that Troy at once appreciates and resents. "I've seen a few similar scenes," he confesses. "But nothing quite like this. She must be upset about something more than she's letting on."

'Great,' he thinks. So this is about him. A blind man would have been able to see the anger in Sharpay's eyes back during their first meeting in LA, but he thought she would at least attempt to be professional about it.

"No worries, kid," Rex booms in his deep voice, "this time next week, she'll be nothing but a consummate professional."

…0…

Rex, it turns out, is wrong.

The longer filming goes on, the more temperamental and difficult Sharpay gets. And as he suspected was going to be the case, Troy is more often than not on the receiving end of her wrath.

"Is it humanly possible for you to hit your mark?" she demands about three weeks in, hands on her hips and that trademark mean girl glare in her eyes.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair (sure to give Wendy the hairdresser fits). "I'm trying here."

"Well try harder." And she flounces out of the room, heels of her costume heels clacking loudly in her wake.

The prop chair is the perfect place to collapse and drop his head into his hands. He's not sure how much more of this he can take. It seems as if everything he's doing is wrong-at least to Sharpay who has no qualms whatsoever about letting him know her opinion.

The one solace he has in the whole situation is that Joyce has flown back to the states, eager to capitalize on the movie and launch the elaborate publicity strategy she's had planned probably before he ever saw the script in the first place.

The director gives him a sympathetic look. He's as tired of all this as Troy is. Everyone on set is, but there's a lot to be gained just by having Sharpay's name attached to this project. She can guarantee a smash opening weekend simply by being involved. There just happens to be nothing more to be done at this point than to try and do the best job they can and attempt to do it without letting her get to them.

Easier said than done it turns out.

When Sharpay rolls her eyes the next day at his flubbing his lines, Troy snaps.

"I don't know what your problem is," he tells her, face lowered down to hers so that they were almost nose to nose. "But I'm here, Sharpay, and you can throw all the little snits you want-it won't change things."

Which is much, much nicer than what he wants to say. That's Troy finally decides to follow Sharpay's lead and storm off the set.

…0…

There's a gym on the top floor of his hotel. State of the art everything and a spa right next door. Troy spends three hours shooting hoops before his leg begins to scream in protest. Defeated and still boiling, he decides to try out the pool.

The cool water seems to do the trick, and he glides through the Tiffany blue water feeling like the anger is slipping off his shoulders and down into the filter below.

Then of course he emerges to see Sharpay at the water's edge, annoyed stare fixed on him.

"Troy Bolton's first diva moment, and I was there to see it," she says. "Am I a lucky girl or what?" She situates herself at one of the small tables littered around. Her hair is pulled back off her face and the thick pancake makeup applied to her skin that morning has been scrubbed away. He can see her, just her, for the first time since this whole mess began and she looks like the girl he grew up with before the attitude really began to set in.

"What do you want, Sharpay?"

There's anger in his voice still, or maybe again at seeing her there, but she doesn't seem surprised by it. In fact, she sort of looks like she expects it.

Crossing her ankles, she leans back in her little iron chair and schools her features. "Why don't you come out of there and I'll tell you."

He does as she asks, and feels rather proud of himself for not mentioning the way Sharpay's eyes avert from him until he puts his robe on.

"Troy," she begins with her gaze leveled on the London skyline around them, "I'm…sorry."

He laughs., he can't not at the sour look on her face uttering the apology. She frowns, and he laughs harder.

"Can you be serious please?"

Calm now, he sits back against the chair back to let her finish what she came to say.

"I've been taking a lot of things out on you, Troy, and it's not fair. My life lately…honestly, has not been all that great and then you show up."

Well, that's an interesting turn of events.

"I wasn't prepared to see you again and I haven't been handling it well. So…yeah."

Troy smiles, knowing that she may blow up at him again or throw some close handed object at his head. Sharpay doesn't in fact hate him and the realization washes over him like an enormous wave of relief with enough force to knock him flat. It hits him, sitting there looking at her, that this whole experience doesn't have to be the nightmare he's been anticipating.

"Thank, Sharpay. For coming here. You didn't have to." Presenting the words up like a peace offering is what he hopes is necessary for them to form some sort of truce. Both of their sanity relies on it at this point, of that he's fairly certain.

A small smirk curves her lips and her shoulders shrug. Looking like the devious teenager that pranced around him back in Albuquerque for the split second it takes for her to flip open her cell phone, Sharpay glances up at him through those thick eyelashes and his chest constricts. "Not a problem. It is about time we decide to grow up and get along after all."

There's a hypocrisy in that statement too staggering to mention. So he doesn't. His mother raised him to be more of a gentleman than that. If not, he's sure there would be no better therapy then telling her how much of a brat she still is even at 27.

"Tomorrow morning?" he asks.

She nods. "Bright and early."

…0…

The next Saturday is Sharpay's 28th birthday and the studio throws her an enormous party. As her leading man du jour, he's obligated to attend.

"Tell her I said hello." Is what Zeke says when Troy mentions it. Chad isn't as congenial. To be precise, he warns Troy not to drink anything he doesn't see poured with his own eyes.

The guests are all mingling on the yacht where the party is taking place. They're to remained docked until Sharpay makes her grand appearance, and then take off for a three hour trip down the Thames.

Which is why he's planted himself at the bar in avoidance of the industry hordes that are flocking about.

When it's seven on the dot she finally emerges from the limo that pulls up. There's applause and Jack, the director, escorts her onto the boat. He claps politely-because it's polite-and goes back to his drink.

The word must have been put out that Troy's not in the mood for shoptalk tonight, because other than polite chit-chat over orders, the only talking he does is to Rex. The older man sits beside him, eyeing a few blondes decades his junior by the railing and cracking jokes to try and make Troy lighten up.

"You're gonna make yourself old before your time kid. Live a little."

One of the girls Rex has been sending drinks too steps away from the group and smiles at him seductively, tucking her hair behind her ear. Rolling his eyes, Troy points his drink in her direction and says, "Why don't you go live enough for the both of us."

"Suit yourself."

Then he's alone with his third Scotch of the night. He's not a fan of hard liquor, but this is Sharpay's party so there's nothing as gauche as beer to be found. It' will have to do until they dock and he's free to go back to his hotel room.

"I don't understand you, Bolton." Sharpay plops herself down next to him and a champagne almost magically appears in front of her. "You're in the greatest city on Earth, on a yacht, and you choose to sit here and mope."

"Greatest city on Earth? Wouldn't New York take offense to that?"

Then he looks at her, really looks at her, and it's all he can do to keep his jaw from dropping open. "Wow."

"You like?" she preens a little (even though she's sitting), and winks at him.

"That is…some dress," he said slowly.

"A woman's dress should be like a barbed wire fence: serving its purpose without obstructing the view," she said offhandedly, "Sophia Loren said it and I could not agree more."

"Yeah."

She grins smugly, not even trying to hide it. There's a satisfaction in making Troy Bolton's eyes go wide that she's not even going to try to hide-not even from Troy himself. She knows she looks amazing, so why should she deny it?

He's still a little dumbstruck so she snaps her fingers in front of his face. "It's a dress, Bolton, not a championship ring."

"Uh, yeah." He shakes his head, willing the fog (alcohol, no doubt) in his head to clear. "You look nice."

"I gathered." There's that smugness again. He eyes slip down and she makes a 'tsk'ing sound. "I see you still haven't learned how to tie a tie properly.

"What?" He pulls it forward and adjusts in self-consciousness. "What's wrong with it?"

She heaves an exasperated sigh and takes hold of his tie. "Here." The attitude would make one think that it was a task of untold difficulty; that she was martyring herself by the simple action of twisting and tucking just so without strangling him.

That part may have been the most difficult. Or he could just be projecting his own nerves at having a piece of fabric wrapped around his throat with Sharpay Evans attached to the other end. When she's done, smoothing it down and fixing his collar, she tilts her head to appraise him properly. "Better."

"Thanks." He leans back and sniffs the air. There's something spicy yet floral in the air, something out of place for open air and water. "You smell that?"

A small wrist ends up under his nose. "Chanel #5. A woman wearing the wrong perfume has no future. Coco Chanel."

"How many of those do you have?" he asks, hoping she's distracted from the odd behavior he knows he's exhibiting.

"Dozens." she answers, tone just a fraction deeper, enough to make him feel it in his gut. It feels like a punch, and a direct hit at that. "Don't just sit here all night, Troy. Have fun."

He gives her a lopsided grin. Maybe if he acts like he's going to take her advice, she'll leave him alone. He's had a few drinks and they're starting to mess with his head.

Yeah, that's it.

"I'll try."

"Liar," she scoffs. "But it's my birthday so you have to do what I say. Get up. Mingle. Smile."

Some big name London actor with perfectly scripted time shows up and she's off without a spare look back at him. Not that that's…bad. Not at all. He's just a little less sure that he wants to be by himself than he thought. Just a little problem. Kind of the same way Mt. St. Helens was a little problem.

Typical Sharpay.

…0…


End file.
